


Into Battle

by Syrum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fill, inappropriate thoughts, on the battle field, you boys are going to get yourselves killed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prompt from sugarhihihello: 'a sort of two-parter of them seeing each other in battle (on different occassions?) and getting turned on by their ability :3'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Battle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sugarhihihello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugarhihihello/gifts).



Dorian was unlike any other mage Cullen had ever met. He was solid, unshakable, and with a staff in his hands on the battlefield, downright deadly. He moved and twisted like a snake, shifting with a near-inhuman agility away from attacks that would have downed and likely killed his fellow mages. He knew, from speaking with the man late at night over too much wine and drawn out kisses, that this was what he had been trained for. From birth, he had been moulded by his father to be a fighter, learning to twirl and twist a staff before his magic had even surfaced, to defend himself should the worst happen. Tevinter was, he said, an extremely dangerous place.

When Dorian spoke of his father to Cullen, it was in hushed tones with a touch of regret. Despite the anger he often vocalised to the others about the man, in the privacy of night when huddled away together Cullen was allowed to see the other side of the tale, the one with the frightened little boy who wanted nothing more than his father’s approval, and who did nothing to go against the man’s wishes, until he could simply take no more. Blood magic, he knew, was far beyond Dorian’s abilities to forgive. It should not have surprised Cullen to discover that - he had met plenty of mages who abhorred the very idea of utilising such forbidden magics, regardless of what they were to be used for, yet to see such a level of animosity towards the practice - particularly when Dorian specialised in raising the dead, of all things, though he did so hate when Cullen referred to it as such - was unexpected.

He missed his father, Cullen knew. The mage had spent too much time pandering to the man, living for him, that it was like a gaping hole had been left in his chest. He had no idea how to live for himself; even after his father’s betrayal, there had been Alexius, who again betrayed him. Now, he had the Inquisition, and for the first time Cullen was starting to understand exactly why he threw himself into his work so completely. It wasn’t because he felt it was needed, or that he should, it was because he simply knew no other way of living.

None of that was visible now; a contingent of Red Templars and far too many demons saw to that. The Inquisition’s forces were winning, of course, though that did not mean they could afford to grow complacent, that was how lives were lost. Cullen cut through another rage demon, the thing fizzling out under his blade, leaving a blackened, charred mess where grass had once grown. Some ten feet away, Dorian was fending off a group of the things, twisting and shifting in what appeared to be a very small space, but Cullen knew that not only was each move, each flick of the wrist and spark of magic, carefully and precisely planned, that the space he allowed himself was designed to allow perfect execution of each attack, causing maximum damage to the enemy.

He had one eye on the mage, one on the approaching Templar, a bad habit he had formed out of an irrational need to protect the mage. He had assumed it was his Templar training kicking in; that had been his job, after all, but he knew full well now that it was more than that. Still, Dorian was far more competent in battle than even he, and would not fall easily. Another flick of the end of his stave proved that, as an arc of fire obliterated three more adversaries.

He wished he could spend more time watching Dorian fight, but with his own life very much in danger he simply could not afford the luxury of sitting back and enjoying the show. It was quite a show, as well; he loved the way the mage’s body moved to counteract the weight of the staff as he swung it, how his chest and stomach would flex, feet moving as a dancer’s might, deadly and beautiful. He knew how that body looked without the robes, could not help the image that appeared in his mind of Dorian’s form moving and shifting for him, without the cumbersome fabric in the way. How would he look, fighting like that, coated in a thin sheen of sweat from the exertion and panting lightly? It was enough for the heat in Cullen’s breeches to double, and the Red Templar’s sword missed his head by a hair; now was not the time. 

* * *

He needed Cullen. He needed Cullen more than the man knew, more than he would ever allow him to know. He needed their shared space, the softly spoken terms of endearment and the way the Commander would curl around him, holding him safe, at precisely the moment that he needed the contact, and the gentle, loving kisses that made him weak at the knees. He was certain that the man knew him, at times, better than he knew himself, and he needed that.

Dorian had wanted Cullen since he first laid eyes on him, and kept his distance, knowing that the man was so far out of his reach he might as well be on the other side of Thedas. It hadn’t stopped the want, though, and as they grew closer, their friendship blossoming, the want grew as well, until it was near enough impossible to ignore. When Cullen had first kissed him, completely out of the blue and unexpected, he had thought he might well pass out from the shock. Then another kiss, and another, and he found himself near enough drowning in the other man.

It developed into love faster than it perhaps should have, for both of them. An infatuation, Cullen had called it laughingly when he tried to explain why he had kissed Dorian at all. He had, apparently, been pining after the mage for almost as long as the mage had been pining after him, and Dorian wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about that.

Cullen needed him as well, Dorian knew. He had sat and listened to the man, silent and still, as he explained the pain of his past, of demons and corruption and the absolute terror he had felt after Kirkwall, knowing that while he hadn’t had a hand in starting the whole thing, that he could have stopped it had he simply called Meredith out on her actions earlier. But he couldn’t, because to do that would lose him his position within the order, strip him of power entirely and he would likely have ended up in the gallows as a prisoner himself, branded a traitor. She had, he said, been utterly ruthless in her pursuit of the leashing and destruction of mages. She would not, and did not, hesitate to strike down one of her own if they ever spoke a word against her.

He blamed himself, as well, for the demonic outbreak in Kinloch Hold, yet Dorian could never persuade him to speak about what happened there, and he never pushed for answers. There were some nights Cullen would awaken from a nightmare, fuelled by the memories of what happened all those years ago, and Dorian would simply hold him until the shaking and the low muttering of names that meant almost nothing to the mage stopped.

Cullen was a remarkably sweet man, and the only one Dorian could recall who had ever bought him flowers. Carnations, lilies and a few white roses - nothing overly special, by Tevinter standards, and yet the bouquet combined with Cullen’s hopeful smile when he handed them to Dorian left the mage’s heart fluttering against his ribcage so rapidly that he thought he might faint, with a grin upon his face wide enough that it was a wonder permanent dimples hadn’t formed as a result. He had procured a jug from the kitchens, vases being something of a scarcity with Sera around and her penchant for breaking the things, and the flowers had remained in his room long after they withered and cracked. It wasn’t, in fact, until they started attracting insects that Dorian was forced somewhat reluctantly to dispose of the long-dead blooms, though as soon as he did a fresh bunch appeared in their place, and then another after those. Cullen said nothing, and Dorian did not ask, but it had been fairly obvious where the flowers were coming from.

He himself had never been particularly good at gifting; impersonal he could do, insulting he knew well, but a genuine from-the-heart gift? That was something Dorian had never experienced before Cullen, much less attempted himself. He watched, and waited, but it was frustratingly difficult to find something he thought the Commander might like that he did not already possess. So, he did the only thing he knew how, and tried to repay the kindness with butterfly kisses over sensitive spots and talented fingers, a deft tongue finding its mark and drawing stuttering breaths and impassioned cries from the man. Cullen was truly magnificent when he came undone, and Dorian found he much preferred watching his lover writhe beneath him than he did finding his own release, another first for him.

Cullen was all hard lines and defined muscle, honed through years of hard training and practical use of his skills. Stretched out upon the silks of Dorian’s bed in nothing but a thin sheen of sweat that covered his skin, panting and begging and painfully hard, he may as well have been one of the old gods of legend made mortal.

That symbolism transferred frustratingly well over to the battlefield, and Dorian was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. It was unusual for them to remain so close in a fight, circumstance typically separated them for the duration, and it was really quite distracting. Dorian lost his footing, swore as a fireball impacted upon the ground where his feet should have been, and spun on his heel to return the favour. He could hear the low grunt and impact of metal-on-metal behind him that indicated the Commander had clashed with another of the Templars, and even without looking Dorian knew who would emerge victorious. The vile yet somehow satisfying sound of flesh rendering and blood spilling hit his ears, and although he knew Cullen would not fall to such a lowly adversary, he still had to check. Throwing a look over his shoulder, Dorian watched for only a moment as his lover righted himself, seeming to shine in the late afternoon sunlight, and Maker help him he wanted that man.

Their eyes met for a moment, heat passing between them, mirror images of badly timed need, before another demon required Dorian’s attention and Cullen’s sword swung around to remove the head of someone who might at one time have been an ally, lost now to the corruption of the red. Later, they thought. They would address the pain and the need and each other later.

**Author's Note:**

> Help, I'm running out of prompts! My tumblr is syrum.tumblr.com you can prompt me on there if you wish :)


End file.
